


there were two gods in this church

by CigaleDesNeiges



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Catholic Guilt, Established Relationship, Introspection, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Ronan Lynch Loves Adam Parrish, but not too much
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24842410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CigaleDesNeiges/pseuds/CigaleDesNeiges
Summary: Ronan worships like he loves, and loves like he worships.
Relationships: Ronan Lynch/Adam Parrish
Comments: 34
Kudos: 134





	there were two gods in this church

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic and writing it was an adventure! Thank you to [creativefiend19](https://archiveofourown.org/users/creativefiend19) and [pixiedustatsundown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pixiedustatsundown/) for the endless help, encouragement and reassurances!
> 
> Title is from Blue Lily, Lily Blue.

The dust floats gently in and out of the sunlight as it passes through the stained glass windows of St. Agnes. The light looks different today, this part of the floor alight instead of this part of the pew, some blue here where there usually is yellow. The shadows on the floor are elongated and the air feels a little cooler than it does in the mornings, when Ronan is usually here for Sunday mass. It must be the evening, Ronan’s favourite time at St. Agnes, when the church is unusually silent and unusually holy. He feels like it belongs to him, and to him only. Perhaps he belongs to it instead.

He sits on his usual pew, second row from last, and breathes in. The smell is familiar, grounding. The air feels heavy and sacred.

He is alone, and then he isn’t. The priest at the altar, pouring the sacramental wine, and, in that strange way dream logic works, the evening light is now hitting the congregation instead of an empty church, the organ is playing a haunting melody and the benches are full in the way Ronan only sees at Christmas and Easter.

The parishioners are all going up for communion and he joins them unthinkingly.

He goes up to the altar, watches as parishioner after parishioner receives the host. It’s his turn; he takes a step, another one. Opens his mouth to accept the host, looks up. The priest is absent, replaced by Adam. The smell of moss, trees and earth drifts in. Ronan is struck with the feeling that he has always been standing in this spot, in this church, waiting for something, and Adam has always been here, offering. 

Ronan’s mouth is still open and accepting. Adam raises his hand and puts two fingers to it. He has a hungry look on his face that Ronan recognizes with a shameful twist in his gut. He reminds himself that he’s allowed to return Adam’s gaze now, that he doesn’t have to hide his desire behind anger, but habits are hard to break, especially here, in this church.

Ronan looks at Adam and sucks his fingers into his mouth, an automatic gesture, their shape memorized and their taste familiar.

Ronan wakes up alone, flushed, frustrated and ashamed, the organ still ringing in his ears, the smell of earth lingering.

* * *

Ronan sometimes likes to go to St. Agnes early on Sunday mornings. The church is still empty, the parish slowly waking up around him. He stops at the holy water, crosses himself, and sits down at his usual pew. Soon Matthew and Declan will arrive, the pews will fill, and the priest will begin his sermon. But this moment is just for him, solitude before the day’s worship begins.

Today, the morning light is a reassuring reminder of reality, but the discomfort from his dream lingers. He can still remember the exact way the light was hitting Adam’s face, can still taste his fingers in his mouth, warm skin and gasoline. His stomach clenches. It feels familiar to him, his shame at making the sacred profane, an unfriendly reminder of the self-hatred that was once so familiar to him, that he let himself feel every Sunday, before. 

He closes his eyes and begs God for forgiveness.

* * *

Sometimes Ronan arrives early to at St. Agnes for a different, more private kind of worship. 

He walks up to the stairs to Adam’s dingy apartment, a faithful making a pilgrimage to a sacred site. On Sunday mornings, he always knocks quietly, an unusual gesture for someone many believe incapable of gentleness, afraid to disturb the peace and sacredness that seems to emanate from St. Agnes. On Sunday mornings, even Adam seems more reverent, sensing the holy atmosphere.

These stolen moments always feel sacred, skin touching skin, lips touching lips, finding sanctuary in each other’s bodies. Adam has that look in his eyes, the hungry look from Ronan’s dream, and Ronan feels awed. 

He closes his eyes and sends up a prayer of gratitude.

* * *

St. Agnes has always been a constant in Ronan’s life. He spent so many mornings here as a child, awed by the high ceiling, the fragile-looking stained glass windows, the pews worn with age. Feelings of wonder that transformed into boredom as a teenager and eventually became the comfort he feels today and finds difficult to put into words. 

He has learned to come to St. Agnes when the call of danger is too strong and his anger too sharp. There is a peacefulness here that burrows inside of him, settles him, relieves the itching under his skin and brings some colour to the darkness in his mind.

The feel of the kneeler pressing against him always soothes him, years of repetition training him to feel closer to God when on his knees with his hands clasped in front of him. 

For a short while, he can forget himself, lose himself in the familiarity of the motion and the flow of the congregation. Standing and sitting and kneeling and sitting… A comforting rhythm to guide him to salvation. 

Trust is the hardest part, but sometimes he manages even that. Trusting himself. Trusting that the other parishioners’ movement will guide him if he loses his way. Trusting that when he kneels and looks up, God is looking back. Trusting that God hasn’t forgotten him, after all.

So he keeps returning to this timeless ritual, Sunday after Sunday, prayer after prayer.

* * *

Ronan has other rituals, too. Walking up the stairs to Adam, again and again. Adam’s constant welcome lending rhythm to his days and ceremony to his nights.

He finds comfort in this gentle familiarity: well-worn clothes and well-worn stares, rough fingers and bony knuckles. 

And when he needs to forget himself a little more, he knows what to ask for. He kneels for Adam. Offers himself to him like a faithful submits to God. 

The first time they had done this, Adam had stared, awed and overcome. Ronan had flushed, feeling a mix of shame and euphoria, desire and fear. Adam has kneeled beside him and kissed him, Ronan’s pulse had settled and his thoughts had calmed.

They know better now, know what each one needs and what the other can give.

He lets Adam take control for a time, lets Adam give him a break from the anger and the pain, the temptation and the sin. 

The ritual is familiar, a prayer to something larger than himself, something more. The feeling is familiar, too: serenity, trust and surrender. 

His thoughts quiet, eventually. He sinks deep inside of himself, his mind a blank slate for Adam to do whatever he wishes. He trusts Adam to take good care of it.

It has always been easier to trust Adam than to trust himself.

* * *

Ronan hasn’t been to confession in longer than he would like to admit. He knows he has no shortages of sins to confess, but it’s getting harder to come up with a suitable and believable half truth. 

It used to be easier, his sins a little more human, he fought with Declan, drank with Kavinksy, raced the BMW, snuck into the Barns... Now the Barns is his, Kavinsky is dead, Declan is tired of fighting, and Ronan values his survival. These days, his real sin is dabbling in creation, in what should only be the business of God, a sin too big for the confines of the confessional, too hard to explain and too easy to justify. 

So he keeps quiet, averts his eyes when he walks by the confessional, ducks his face when he passes by the priest, and leaves the church unrepentant. 

He refuses to believe that his love is a sin.

* * *

He confesses it anyway, later, joyful and sure, in Adam’s room above St. Agnes. 

_Tamquam._

* * *

Adam has only been to a service at St. Agnes once, but he had understood something about Ronan that he had never understood before. Ronan had a look on his face Adam had rarely seen: a look of rapture, but not the expressive, loud joy he showed sometimes, while pushing Adam in a shopping cart, racing the BMW, or throwing Opal in a pond at the Barns. No, it was more of a look of peace, of stillness, a quiet bliss, a trust in himself and in the universe. A certainty that had made Adam’s stomach clench, perhaps with envy, perhaps with awe.

Tonight, Ronan is sitting at the front of the church, hands clasped and head bowed. The church is otherwise empty and peaceful. Adam is struck again with how much Ronan looks like he belongs in this church, on this pew. 

Adam doesn't believe in God, but sometimes he thinks he gets a glimpse of Him, in moments like this. When Ronan's face holds that private kind of happiness, praying silently at St. Agnes, the light hitting him and accentuating both his sharpness and, somehow, his gentleness. In the fading evening light, he looks almost angelic, but Adam knows he’s more god than angel, more creator than messenger. 

Adam walks over to him and sits down on the pew, knee touching knee.

Adam doesn’t believe in God, but sometimes he thinks he senses Him, in moments like this. Sacredness seeping into his bones, stillness quieting his heart. Ronan’s presence a warm certainty beside him. His usually busy mind is serene, like when he steps on the ley line, thoughts calm and clear. He thinks, _he makes me quiet_.

Ronan takes his hand, brings it to mouth and kisses his knuckles. Adam’s breath hitches.

Adam doesn’t believe in God, but sometimes he wonders. When the way Ronan looks at him is too much to comprehend, and his own heart feels too big for his chest.

Ronan puts Adam’s hand on his lap, traces the lines in his palm, strokes his fingers. Adam stares. 

Ronan like this, open and vulnerable, always seems otherworldly, especially here. A whole world of possibility and impossibility, of dreaming and magic, and yet he chose Adam.

Ronan’s touch on his hand is gentle and reverent. 

For a brief, hazy moment, Adam is unsure who is worshipping who. 

_Alter idem._


End file.
